


A Witch or an Antichrist?

by Flywolf33



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam as a witch's apprentice, Adam has a bad American Accent, Adam is very much a twelve year old boy, Adam likes to play hero, Anathema is annoyed, Crowley is Awkward, Crowley is silly, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Parting from Heaven and Hell messed with their powers, So is Aziraphale really, Witches, embarrassment for comedy, implied sexy things, partial snake form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27249199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywolf33/pseuds/Flywolf33
Summary: Anathema Device was a retired Professional Descendant, part-time homeopathic medicine peddler, and full-time witch. She was married to an ex-witchfinder who’d managed to find her and was the favorite babysitter for the quaint town of Tadfield. Thanks to one former Antichrist who used his powers to either keep the peace or cause mischief as he saw fit and little in between, life was mostly quiet but not without its excitement.There was one particular excitement, however – or rather, a pair of excitements – that Anathema wished would leave her alone.In which Azirpahale and Crowley call up Anathema whenever they have a problem miracles can't solve and she is [i]so done with it[/i].This loosely takes place in the same universe as "The Consequences of Being Somewhat Human".
Relationships: Anathema Device & Adam Young, Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Anathema Device, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 28





	A Witch or an Antichrist?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M4R4N14MH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M4R4N14MH/gifts).



> I DID IT. I FINALLY DID IT. I WROTE A FIC WITHOUT ANGST. HAH! IT CANT BE DONE! I AM UNSTOPABLE!!! *maniacle laughter here*
> 
> Anyway, this is based off a conversation I had with M4R4N14MH in the comments of [The Consequences of Being Somewhat Human](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27200482) and then I had to write it, which I did at 11 pm in a guard shack in the middle of nowhere. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Anathema Device was a retired Professional Descendant, part-time homeopathic medicine peddler, and full-time witch. She was married to an ex-witchfinder who’d managed to find her and was the favorite babysitter for the quaint town of Tadfield. Thanks to one former Antichrist who used his powers to either keep the peace or cause mischief as he saw fit and little in between, life was mostly quiet but not without its excitement.

There was one particular excitement, however – or rather, a _pair_ of excitements – that Anathema wished would _leave her alone_.

It’s not that she disliked Aziraphale and Crowley, or even minded helping them every so often. In fact, the first time they’d called, which was a little more than a year after Armageddon failed to happen, Anathema had been thrilled. She’d almost forgotten about them (as much as one could forget about ethereal and occult beings that hit one with a car, messed with her bicycle, stole and _burned_ her family’s 300 year old book, tried to shoot an eleven year old boy, and frankly did not act as human as they seemed to think) and the moment they hung up she and Newt had been on the road heading for London. It had been a minor incident in which Aziraphale had somehow been snared by a spell tying him to a local baker, preventing him from moving more than a half-mile away from the man. How this happened they didn’t know, but Anathema suspected the baker had done it on purpose to try and catch the bookseller’s attention.

Crowley seemed hellbent (pun intended) on revenge, but since no real harm had been done, Aziraphale was able to talk him out of it. Never the less, the baker promised to keep his distance.

Since then, it seemed the dam had broken and the pair considered Anathema the human expert they could call at any inconvenience their miracles couldn’t solve. They’d summoned her ten times over the last two months, calling at the oddest hours for increasingly mundane things. She understood they were trying to adapt to their break from their respective bosses and subsequent entrance into a relationship with each other, she really did, but she was making her own adjustments too.

Anathema was trying to curb her language due to the constant flow of young children through her home, but she let an especially bad curse slip when Aziraphale’s name lit up her phone screen shortly after dinner.

“Language,” Newt called from the other room, where he was watching a cartoon program with one of the toddlers he frequently watched.

Anathema considered ignoring the call, but the tenacious angel would just keep trying through the night if he had to and frankly, she didn’t feel like dealing with him if she blew him off.

She snatched her phone off the counter. “What.”

“Anathema,” Aziraphale said after a pause. “Crowley, err… well, we seem to have a bit of a problem. If you could be a dear…”

“I _do_ have a life,” she said tersely.

“Well, yes, but-”

Anathema sighed. “Bookshop or Cottage?”

“Cottage. Thank you, dear.”

The witch muttered something unintelligible and hung up. She set her phone on the counter and glared at it.

“What do they need this time?” Newt asked, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Crowley probably caught a cold again or stubbed his toe or something,” Anathema sighed, sinking into a chair. Her forehead made a hollow _thunk_ as she dropped it onto the table.

“You could always tell them no.”

“What if it’s an emergency though? They can’t seem to heal each other and sometimes not even themselves anymore. Remember when Crowley got sick?”

“Maybe you could take on an apprentice,” Newt suggested. “Teach someone else so you can take a break.”

“No, I-” Anathema paused, then rolled her head to peer up at her husband. She signaled for him to hand her the phone, which he did, and she hit speed dial 3. It only rang twice before it was answered.

“Hello?”

Anathema grinned. “Hey Adam. How would you like to become a witch?”

_____________________________

Aziraphale paced restlessly in the center of the room, wringing his hands together and occasionally glancing at the grandfather clock against the wall.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet if you keep that up,” Crowley said from the settee, where he lay with a blanked tucked over him.

“She ought to be here by now,” Aziraphale fretted.

“She can’t always drop everything and I’m not going to die if she takes a bit longer.”

If Aziraphale was going to reply he was cut short by the sudden appearance of a young boy in the room. He simply popped into existence right there by the coffee table.

Even stranger than the boy were his clothes. He wore oversized black robes, an exaggerated pointed black hat made of cardboard, and an armful of mysterious-looking books.

“Adam?” Aziraphale said the same moment Crowley said, “What the fuck?”

Aziraphale shot him a disapproving glare.

“I’m not Adam, I’m Anathema!” Adam said in a too-high voice and terrible imitation of an American accent. “Olay!”

“Oh no,” Crowley groaned.

“Tell me your ails, oh hapless mortals, and I shall aid you! Olay!” Adam continued.

“We’re not _actually_ mortal-”

“Aziraphale.”

“Right, err, you see, this is a problem we really need _Anathema_ for-”

“I _am_ Anathema!” Adam insisted in his fake accent, waving one hand dramatically and struggling not to drop his books.

“Right. One moment.” Aziraphale said, turning towards the kitchen. He paused. “Tea and biscuits?”

Adam’s eyes glittered. “Yes please,” he said, maintaining his high voice. “Olay!”

Aziraphale put the kettle on before dialing Anathema, who didn’t answer. He tried again to no avail. His next five attempts were also futile. He decidedly did _not_ swear, but it was a close thing. Crowley was a bad influence. Aziraphale collected the tea and biscuits and returned to the lounge.

Adam had dumped his tomes on the coffee table and was studiously examining them, though he abandoned the task when Aziraphale set the biscuits beside him. The angel was pretty sure the book the boy had been reading was a very old encyclopedia of fishing. He was also pretty sure he saw at least one _Dungeons and Dragons_ book in the pile.

“Anathema didn’t answer,” Aziraphale whispered to Crowley.

Adam heard anyway. “I’m Anathema,” he insisted through a mouthful of biscuit, caught himself, and repeated in his fake accent, “I mean, I’m Anathema today.”

Crowley, who hadn’t moved, covered his face with his hands and groaned. His ears were flushed bright red. “This isn’t the kind of problem for a kid,” he mumbled into his hands.

Adam swallowed his biscuit and drew himself up, fixed his hat, and said, “I’m not a kid, I’m Anathema!” he paused. “Olay!”

“You’re still eleven, Adam,” Aziraphale said gently, “and you don’t need to keep saying “olay.””

“I’m twelve,” Adam pouted, dropping the act. “And Anathema taught me some stuff and gave me some witchy things and her books and said to come help you cuz Mr. Crowley was in trouble.”

Crowley groaned again, face still covered and yet clearly blushing even harder.

“C’mon, Mr. Crowley,” Adam wheedled, pushing his hat from his head and onto the floor, where Aziraphale frowned at it. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? I can help.”

Crowley shook his head and mumbled something inaudible.

“We may as well tell him, my dear,” Aziraphale said.

The demon sighed but didn’t reveal his face. “I got… a little… _overexcited_ , and…” he peeked up and waved one hand so the blanket covering him fell away.

Crowley’s bottom half, everything from his ribs down, was almost snakelike. _Almost_ being the operative word, because even though his legs were mostly fused together and had grown tiny scales, they still clearly looked like _legs_ with defined _pants_ , and there was a very clear bulge where legs met hips.

“I’m stuck,” Crowley mumbled, hiding his brilliantly flushed face again, “and I can’t get my… _it_ to go away.”

Aziraphale hummed with concern.

Adam started laughing.

Crowley seemed to shrink in on himself and partially turned his covered face towards the back of the settee.

“Adam that’s _rude_ ,” Aziraphale admonished.

“Sorry,” Adam said, sobering, but not quite losing his smirk. “Does it hurt?”

“…a little.”

The former Antichrist bit his lip and began shuffling through the books he’d brought. As excited as he was to play hero, he _did_ wish she’d taken this call.

“Well, maybe…” Adam moved around the coffee table and stopped beside the embarrassed demon lying half-transformed on the settee. “May I?” he asked, reaching out.

Crowley peeked at him and nodded.

Adam rested his hand on Crowley’s combined knee. It was mostly smooth, with small ridges where scales poked through. “What were you doing?”

“Best not to ask,” Aziraphale said after brief hesitation, color creeping up his neck.

For once, Adam didn’t push it and focused on the task at h and. “Why’d it stop?”

Crowley shrugged. “The miracle power suddenly just… vanished, while I was halfway through. And now I can’t seem to finish-” he flushed again, “-even though I can do miracles again now.”

Adam hummed speculatively, then with a faint push of will…

Crowley yelped as, with an audible pop, the scales vanished and his legs sprang apart, back to normal.

Except the noticeable bulge in his skinny jeans. That was still there. Adam understood enough to know he did _not_ was to mess with that.

“Ow,” Crowley hissed, curling his legs up to his chest.

Adam backed up, nearly tripping on his oversized robes. “Better?”

“Yesss,” Crowley said, rolling to sit upright.

Aziraphale looked relieved. “Thank you, dear boy.”

“You’re welcome,” Adam said brightly, reaching for another biscuit. “Glad I could help,” he continued with his high-pitched American accent.

“Um, perhaps it would be better if you didn’t mention this to anybody,” Aziraphale said.

Adam cocked his head with a grin. A few biscuit crumbs fell to the floor.

Aziraphale grimaced.

“You,” Adam said, pointing at Crowley who froze and stared back at his former boss’s son with wide eyes, “no more snake-changing for a while, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley nodded.

“Do you need a ride home?” Aziraphale asked while Adam gathered his cardboard witch’s hat and books.

Adam jammed the hat back on his head, grinned up at them, and said, “Nope!” before vanishing into thin air.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Crowley said.

“Yes,” Aziraphale mused, “I quite agree.”

_________________________

When Anathema woke up the next morning and turned on her phone, she had exactly eight missed calls from Aziraphale but only one voicemail. She listened to it on speaker, sharing a confused look with Newt when the angel said, “ _not the kind of case for a child-”_ and “ _scared Crowley half to death, he’s so embarrassed-”_ and rambling on about crumbs in the carpet.

Anathema called the Youngs, exchanged a few pleasantries with Deidre, and asked for Adam.

“What trouble has he got to now?” Deidre sighed.

“Oh, no trouble,” Anathema said quickly. “He just helped me out with a little project yesterday and I’d like to follow up.”

“Oh! That’s nice. He’s in the garden; just a moment.”

There was a muffled conversation, then Adam’s excited voice came on. “Hi Anathema!”

“Hey Adam,” Anathema greeted. “I got a concerning voicemail from Aziraphale. He said you embarrassed Crowley?”

The boy started snickering. “Yeah, I guess,” he said, “but he did it to himself really.”

“What happened?”

“Mr. Aziraphale said not to tell…”

“Adam.”

Adam broke easily, clearly eager to share the story regardless of anything he may have been asked, punctuating his story with giggles. “He turned himself into a snake, only he got stuck halfway there and couldn’t get out.”

Anathema suppressed a snort of amusement. “Why did he do that?”

“Because I think,” Adam said, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I think they were doing _adult things_.”

Anathema choked. “What makes you say that?” she asked, heat rising in her face.

“Because Mr. Crowley said he got ‘overexcited’, and also there was…” the boy paused and giggled again. “He had a boner.”

“Adam Young!” Anathema exclaimed, fully blushing now. “Where did you learn that word?”

Adam huffed, breath crackling across the line. “I’m not a _kid_ anymore.”

 _Yes you are,_ Anathema thought, but didn’t argue. “I’m so sorry I made you deal with that. I should have just gone-”

“Nah,” Adam said dismissively. “It was fun. I like playing witch.” She could almost see his grin. “Can I do it again?”

Anathema sighed. “See if your parents will let you come over Thursday, and I’ll teach you.”

Adam excitedly thanked her and hung up.

“Guess I have the Antichrist for an apprentice,” Anathema said to Newt, who had listened to the entire conversation with rapt attention.

He grimaced. “That means you’ll likely have all of Them over as apprentices soon.”

Anathema groaned and flopped back down on the bed.

_Trade one excitement for another…_

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this chapter, please drop a comment! Comments give me life. 
> 
> If you _didn't_ like this chapter, please leave me some constructive criticism so I can improve! 
> 
> Please come visit me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/flywolfwriting) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/heather_wolffe)!


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